


Lucky

by estepheia



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blindfolds, Handcuffs, Human, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Coercion, Slash, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-20
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-16 06:49:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4615380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/estepheia/pseuds/estepheia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Spike breaks into Detective Liam Angel's place, he soon comes to regret it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: This is a lot nastier than my usual stories. I wrote this for a ficathon. It's my first human AU and it is also very non-con. – Back then I tried almost every pairing I could think of to see if I could pull it off, and with this story I tried my hand at going very dark. You've been warned. If non-con puts you off, then, please, do yourself a favour and stay away.  
> Written 2004.

Keys rattled in the lock, then the door opened only to be slammed shut a moment later. With a metallic clunk the heavy bunch of keys hit the counter that separated the kitchenette from the spacious living room. It landed right next to the phone. A red flashing light indicated a voice mail. At the push of a button, the machine beeped, then a woman's accusing voice spoke up:

"Angel? In case you hadn't noticed, it's the fourth. You're late. Again. If you don't learn to write a check on time, Lindsey says he'll garnish your wages. I want the money in my hands by Monday, otherwise I'll call your boss. I'll tell Chief Wilkins that his highly decorated super cop can't pay his child support on time, because he spends it all on call boys and gambling. Also, Connor told me you met him outside his school and that he asked you to come and watch him bat on Sunday. You'll have to call him. Tell him you can't make it. Tell him you're too busy cracking your big case. Make something up. After all, lying is something you really excel at. If I hear that you've been near my son again I'll——Beep."

"Bitch!" Police Detective Liam Angel, vice squad, LAPD, punched the delete button on the answering machine, erasing his ex-wife's message.

He shrugged out of his expensive leather jacket and put it on a hanger, mindful of the soft material, then toed off his Guccis, enjoying the softness of the thick carpet under his feet as he headed towards his well stocked liquor cabinet. A Bourbon later, the edge of his bad temper was nowhere near blunted, but the alcohol had transmuted the gut-churning anger into a more comforting burn.

Full glass in one hand, bottle dangling from the other, Angel padded through the house and up the winding staircase into the large bedroom. It was an elegantly furnished room with a plush white carpet, white shelves, a 42" plasma TV, and a huge four poster bed. A burgundy red mosquito net hung from the ceiling, providing the only splash of color in the otherwise white room. A huge walk-in closet was well hidden behind a set of mirrors that covered an entire wall.

Angel took off his empty shoulder holster, scowling at the memory of his suspension. Hamilton from IA had said nothing throughout the whole procedure, but Chief Wilkins had washed his hands twice in five minutes. And now Angel's gun and badge lay in Chief Wilkins' drawer. Great. He gulped down the contents of his glass, then poured himself another.

Suddenly an unexpected chill trickled up his spine. Angel tensed. He'd learned to trust these stabs of primeval fear. They had jolted him out of harm's way on more than one occasion. Lethal bullets had merely grazed him or missed him altogether. Everybody in the department knew that Angel had a knack for beating the odds. A lucky devil, that's what they called him behind his back. This innate danger radar was a gift, his special talent – out there, in the jungle, in the streets it was invaluable, but it had no business invading his home.

The air, he realized, was a little bit too warm in here. The AC unit should have kept the room temperature far below this. Angel's gaze flickered to the balcony door. It was slightly ajar, letting in warm outside air. A slight draft caused the drapes to billow. Fuck!

All senses on alert, he covertly checked his surroundings. The entire room was reflected in the large mirror that covered one of the walls, including the space under the bed. No killer there. Both the bathroom door and the closet door were closed,

He snuck a hand under the bed to grope for the spare gun he'd duct taped to the bed frame. To his great relief the weapon was still in its place. He pulled it from its hiding place, and quietly checked the chambers, breathing in the familiar smell of metal and gun oil.. Fully loaded. Good.

There weren't many places where an intruder might lurk. In this part of the apartment, there were only the closet, and the bathroom. Given the choice, Angel would always pick the closet for a hiding space. It offered more nooks and crannies. Plus, the mass of fabric inside helped muffle sounds of breathing, while bathrooms tended to amplify all sounds. If the intruder had half a brain, that's where he'd lurk, straining to hear what Angel was doing.

Darla's half of the closet was still full of dresses and skirts, and at least two dozen pairs of women's shoes – cast-offs like Angel, things Darla hadn't bothered to take with her, when she'd stormed off and right into the bed of that upstart lawyer, Macdonald. And to think that she'd only met that smirking son of a bitch because Angel had introduced her to him.

Angel picked up his glass and sipped another mouthful of Bourbon, to wash the bitter taste of jealousy away.

He should get rid of her things, he decided. Burn them. It would serve her right. Only, the fact that they still hung in his closet more than four months after their break-up, made it abundantly clear that she wasn't coming back and that Daddy had already comforted his princess with enough money to buy a truckloads of new Prada shoes and handbags. And that rendered the destruction of her cast-offs an empty, pathetic gesture.

Without a sound and ready to fire his gun as soon as a target presented itself, Angel checked first the balcony, then the bathroom, just to be sure, but every instinct told him that the threat came from the closet. He loosened his tie and took off his vest, hanging it over his arm so it covered the hand with the gun, obscuring the fact that he was armed. Then he opened the closet door with his left.

The neon lights went on automatically, revealing… nothing. Just shoe boxes and rows and rows of clothes, neatly arranged by color and type, like a row of suits going from gray to black, and an impressive number of well-ironed shirts going from light-blue to dark purple.

No pant legs betrayed an intruder lurking between the suits, and none of the clothes were swinging on their hangers. Everything was as it should be, except for that warning tickle between Angel's shoulder blades. Close, real close, the feeling seemed to say. But where?

Angel looked up. Underneath the ceiling, holding on to the upper shelves of the closet and wedged in like a ninja in one of those stupid kung fu movies, hung a man, dressed from head to toe in black. His face was fully hidden under a balaclava, except for a pair of strikingly blue eyes.

"Bollocks," the man muttered, and then, "oof," when Angel punched him in the gut and yanked him down, head first.

The burglar tumbled down in an ungraceful tangle of limbs and landed hard on the floor. A few shoe boxes spilled from the shelves and landed on him. Angel kicked him hard, with the intention to knock the wind out of him. Barefooted he didn't cause any real damage, but at least he elicited a yelp.

The intruder lurched to his feet with more grace than Angel had thought possible, but he stopped in his tracks at the sight of the gun in Angel's unwavering hand.

"Right, you've got me. Don't shoot." The man shouted, arms raised in the air, and added more calmly: "I'm unarmed."

Yeah, like he'd never heard that one before. Usually just before the perp pulled a gun out of his ankle holster. Armed, or unarmed. Angel shrugged. Made no difference to him. Any piece of vermin who broke into a cop's house was either too stupid to live or asking for it, as far as Angel was concerned.

Yet something told him that this wasn't your regular street punk high on crack, prone to pull a gun or knife on you. This man was a cool customer. No nervous fidgeting, no macho air.

"Take it off," Angel said, meaning the hood. "I wanna see your face. And slowly!"

His prisoner slowly reached for the balaclava and pulled it off, revealing a healthy tan, a tangle of slightly too long sun-bleached hair, and one of the prettiest faces Angel had ever seen. Almost too pretty to shoot. Sharp cheekbones, strong nose, sensuous lips, and stunning, deep-blue eyes. A strong face, with a few faint lines around the eyes that suggested that the man was maybe a few years older than the mid-twenties that came to mind at first sight. Classy, yeah, that was the word Angel had been looking for. If one could call a thief classy at all.

With a face like this, the guy would be out in no time. Stupid jury system.

Angel's finger slowly tightened on the trigger. Every self-respecting cop would call this a clear-cut case of self defense: A hooded intruder found dead with a loaded gun in his hand – case closed, especially if the perp had a record. As for the gun, Angel had picked up a small automatic pistol during one of his busts. One less scumbag to get back on the streets because of a foul-up in police procedure, or because he fooled the probation committee. A message to the world out there, that you didn't fuck with cops and their own.

Angel had never killed a man like this before, but he knew others in the department who had. They were still on the force, working their beat and collecting their pay.

Part of what Angel was thinking must have shown on his face, because his prisoner paled and his breathing quickened. But his gaze was defiant.

Suddenly, Angel didn't relish the thought of splattering the man's guts or brain matter all over his plush white carpet. He relaxed slightly, easing the pressure on the trigger, but he did not lower his gun. "Hands behind your head," he barked. "Trust me, from here I couldn't miss even if I tried."

His prisoner obeyed with alacrity. When he raised his arms the black sweater rode high, offering a glimpse of a slim waist, and a wispy trail of honey blond hair that led south from the man's navel and disappeared inside a pair of tight, low riding pants.

Angel walked backwards, out of the closet, beckoning his prisoner forward, until they both stood inside the bedroom.

"Now turn around."

Blondie complied, more slowly this time. Angel left him no time to ponder his fate or contemplate resistance. Two steps brought him into close range. With a vicious punch in the kidneys, he knocked the wind out his prisoner, then manhandled him face first against the mirror. And just so the message didn't get lost, Angel pressed the barrel of his gun against the man's neck. It was a language that even the densest of scumbags normally understood.

Only, apparently Angel's prisoner didn't. "Oi!" he exclaimed. "No need for any of—"

"Shut up." Angel grabbed the blond head and slammed it against the wall. A spider web of cracks appeared where the man's skull smashed the glass. When Blondie's knees buckled, Angel grabbed his collar and kept him upright, using his own weight to pin him to the wall. The guy was a grown man, but rail thin like a junkie. Not heavy at all.

"Now look what you made me do," Angel spat, incensed. "D'you have any idea how much a mirror like this costs?"

His prisoner made a strangled sound, like he was swallowing a chuckle or maybe some smartass comeback.

"What's so funny?"

"Seven years of bad luck, mate," came the slightly slurred reply, in a decidedly British accent.

"Yeah, but it's your bad luck, 'mate'", Angel said, "not mine."

The man shook his head, or maybe he was just trying to clear his head.

"Come on, I'm guessing you know the drill," Angel said and kicked the man's feet apart, relishing the feeling of power. "Spread."

His prisoner surrendered, still slightly stunned from the blow to his head.

Grinning, Angel shoved the gun into the shoulder holster and ran both hands over the man's arms, chest, ass, and legs, expertly patting him down for weapons – with maybe a little more thoroughness than strictly necessary. The man's pockets yielded a wallet, a silver lighter, a pack of cigarettes, and a bunch of car keys, all of which Angel tossed on the bed. Other than that, Angel's knowledgeable hands found nothing of interest, only strong thighs, hard washboard abs, and a nice, firm ass. No gun, no knife, no lock picks. Clean as a whistle.

He yanked the man's wrists behind his back and slapped on the cuffs, before taking a few steps back to rifle through the wallet. It was empty except for a few ten dollar bills. No photographs, no credit cards, no receipts, but most of all: no driver's license. No ID. No name.

"What's your name?" Angel asked, pocketing the money.

His prisoner slowly turned around. Blood seeped from a shallow cut on his forehead. There was a sullen look on his face and he did not answer.

Angel grinned wolfishly, and took a threatening step towards his prisoner. "Okay, let me spell it out for you. I'm not a patient man. So, never – do you hear me? – never make me ask a question twice. Now. What's—"

"Spike." The answer came out without hesitation, but the man's startlingly blue eyes shone with defiance. "The name's Spike."

"I doubt that's what your ID says, but okay, it'll do for now." Angel stepped into the closet for a quick look, but nothing looked out of the ordinary. "Where are your tools? You didn't pick the lock on my balcony door with your fingernails, so where—"

"In there." Spike nodded towards the closet. "Shoe box. The Manolo Blahnik one."

Angel checked and found a tidy assortment of lock picks and pliers. The tools of a true professional.

"What about your piece? Your gun? Where did you hide that?"

"No gun."

Muscled abs or no, Spike doubled over like a flick-knife when Angel's fist slammed into his solar plexus. "Don't lie to me," Angel said calmly, circling the kneeling and panting man like a lion circling his prey. "Never, ever lie to me."

"It's true," the thief ground out, between desperate, open-mouthed gasps for breath. The sight sent a wild, unpremeditated surge of arousal through Angel's body. "Guns. Not my style."

Angel stopped in front of him and grabbed Spike's hair, forcing him to look up, aware that this put the man's mouth mere inches away from his hardening cock. "If I find out you lied to me about this…"

Pain and fear flickered in the man's eyes, and that too felt good, sent a stab of desire right to Angel's cock.

"Do you know who I am?" Angel asked in a low voice.

"You're a cop," his prisoner said. His gaze darted sideways, to a group photograph that hung on the wall, showing Angel and a handful of other cops in front of a patrol car.

"I'd say 'smart lad', only we both know you're not. Why can't I call you smart? Well?" Angel tightened the grip on the man's hair, eliciting an exhilarating wince of pain.

"'Cause I broke into a cop's place?" Spike offered. He looked furious, yet he was scared enough to play Angel's game.

Angel grinned, and let go to mimic the pulling of a trigger. Bull's-eye, the gesture said.

"I didn't know," the little weasel hastened to say. "I swear. I was just in the neighborhood. Thought the place looked nice, posh even. Climbed on the balcony to check it out. Saw the fancy TV an' decided to take a closer look."

"Thinking it was your lucky day, no doubt." Angel completed the story.

"Lucky, yeah," Spike said, with a bitter twitch of his mouth.

Realizing that the blood from his prisoner's head wound was about to drip on his spotless carpet, Angel strode towards the bedside table and yanked open the top drawer to grab a tissue. The other contents of the drawer rolled around, noisily drawing attention to themselves: bottles of lube, condoms, cock rings, and dildos in all shapes and sizes. Angel paused, the tissue box lifted half-way out of the drawer, mesmerized by the sight and the possibilities the long phallic objects seemed to suggest.

He turned around to regard his prisoner. Blondie was still down on his knees, panting, his pretty mouth wide open as he gasped for air. Angel was hit by another surge of arousal and the mental image of his cock disappearing between those lips. A fantasy, tantalizing but harmless, but fueled by anger it began to solidify into a game of bluff.

Angel grabbed Spike's hair again, and held him steady, while he wiped the blood off his face, in slow, meticulous strokes. His cock, already swollen, hardened to the point of discomfort.

"Aren't you gonna read me my rights?" Spike said with a forced chuckle. "Isn't that what you Yankee cops do?"

"Not to low-down cheap punks who invade our homes," Angel said darkly, tossing the blood-stained tissue aside and pulling the gun from its holster. "Those we just shoot."

His prisoner tensed at that. He lifted his head, a wild-eyed look on his face. Fear, defiance, it all looked good on him.

"Unless of course we find some other use for them," Angel said, not entirely sure if he meant the words or if he'd only said them to scare his prisoner.

"What kind of—?" he broke off, when Angel touched the gunpoint to his temple. Instead of pulling the trigger, Angel slowly dragged the cold barrel downwards, tracing the contours of Spike's face – not with great force, not to hurt, but gently, in a lingering caress.

"What kind of use? I think you know," Angel said, drinking in the way his captive squirmed under the touch of his gun. He felt himself harden even more, if that was at all possible. He nudged Spike's lower lip with the barrel, watching his prisoner's nostrils flare as he was breathing rapidly through his nose, determined to keep his lips and mouth impenetrable. In and out, in and out, he breathed. It was an amazing sight. Angel's heart pounded madly in his chest.

Spike's gaze darted from Angel's bulging crotch to the open drawer. So, Blondie had seen the toys Angel kept in there? His mommy should have taught him not to stick his nose where it didn't belong. Angel secured the gun and tossed it on the bed. Time to teach Spike a lesson.

Judging from the expression on his face, Spike knew what would happen next even before Angel did, even before Angel's free hand went to his belt.


	2. Part 2

Oh shit! Few things had ever turned Spike's blood to ice water more quickly, than the slow, deliberate movements with which the man before him unbuckled his belt, right in front of his eyes. The metallic clink of the buckle sounded unnaturally loud in his ears.

"You should have high-tailed out when you heard me come home," Angel said, pushing the buckle aside to slowly undo the button of his slacks, his matter-of-fact tone mismatching his actions to the point of absurdity. "Why didn't you?"

Spike's mouth went dry. His heart -- normally as regular as a Swiss watch, even when on a job – was pounding frantically in his chest. In his head, thoughts and answers whirred backward and forward, like the dial in a combination lock: Please no. Not this. I didn't hear you. Not again. Not fast enough. A lie, a lie, a kingdom for a lie. Oh god. Couldn't think. Don't hurt me. There!

"Armani," he blurted out the first lie that tumbled into place. "Was tryin' on some of your clothes, see?" Spike stared at Angel's hand as though his sheer will power was enough to stay the agonizingly slow descent of that zipper. "Couldn't leave without puttin' my kit back on first. Didn't think you'd—" he petered out, his mouth parched, when the man's erect cock sprang into his view. Thick and heavy, jutting from its nest of dark mahogany curls it was a daunting sight.

"Yes?" Angel prompted him, giving Spike's hair another painful tug.

Spike couldn't avert his gaze, so he closed his eyes, trying to block out the sight of the other man's engorged flesh just inches from his face. "Didn't think you'd come up this quick," he said tonelessly.

Another yank on his hair made his eyes water. "Look at me!"

Reluctantly, Spike opened his eyes.

"You have no idea what it's like to be a cop," Angel spouted, launching into what sounded like an oft-voiced lament. "Working 14 hours a day or longer, to make this city safe for decent people to live in, so they can raise their families unmolested. Standing between them and garbage like of you who think they can just take whatever they want. And what do I get for wading through all that that muck? The paycheck's lousy, and people spit out in the street…."

Spike had heard such rants before, from other cops while riding in the back of their patrol car, and in just about every cop show on telly in the obligatory good-cop-gone-bad epi. Never with a dick aiming at his mouth. Oh god, the guy was losing it. And Spike happened to be in the blast zone.

He stared at the man's pumping fist, intimidated by the sheer size of the man's hand; everything about that sicko seemed to be XXL, from his issues right down to his cock. And still the detective went on talking, and as long as he was talking, he wasn't doing anything with that thing, just holding it. And maybe he was just yanking Spike's chain, trying to rattle him, scare him. And it was working too. Only too well.

"… And every time I so much as sneeze I have Internal Affairs breathing down my neck. And every fucking punk whose skanky ass I throw in the slammer, quotes the law back at me. And to top it all off: tonight I come home and find you low-life in my home, going through my stuff. How do you think that makes me feel?"

Spike assumed this to be a rhetorical question until the detective's fingers tightened on his scalp, wrenching a stifled yelp from his lips.

"Angry?" Spike choked out, wincing both at the pain and at his poor choice of word.

"Angry?" Angel echoed, his voice raised. "Try furious! Scum like you—" he stopped, took a deep breath and continued with chilling calm. "I'm a cop. I make sure, scumbags like you pay for what you do."

"Whatever happened to 'protect and serve'?" Spike asked.

His sarcasm was met with a resounding blow to his jaw, that sent him into a graceless half-spin. Spike landed on his side, and his head hit the floor. Thankfully, the carpet cushioned the impact. Spike grinned through the haze of pain, grinned even though his face ached from the effort.

But when he was jostled back into kneeling position, the grin was harder to maintain.

"That mirror you made me break? You owe me 400 bucks for that. And as for my suit… You wanna wear Armani? Earn it. On your back, if you must, but don't you ever touch what's mine. The suits are a grand apiece. Guess that means you owe me a thousand four hundred. Plus the mess in the wardrobe… rounding up… Call it two thousand. Payable in trade." Angel smirked, slowly stroking his cock, "And you know what? Today's payday. So I want you to open that pretty mouth of yours, and take it like a man."

"Sod off," Spike said, trying to pull away. He was stopped by Angel's iron grip on his hair.

"You seem to be a bit slow on the uptake, so I'll spell it out for you: Whether you leave here on your own two feet or in a body bag is entirely up to you. Got it?"

The urge was there to say 'Fuck you', but Spike had heard that kind of tone before, and it had never boded well for him. And if there was even a slight chance for him to get out of this alive, he had to grab it, if only for his little girl.

"Come on, Sunshine, open it. Don't play shy on me. Ten to one you've been in the slammer before. And with looks like yours, I bet the first time you walked into the shower, fights broke out over who gets to fuck you first."

It was chilling how devastatingly spot on the detective's speculation was—if distorted.

Images and sounds billowed up like hot steam. Memories. A large, misted up bath room, the noise of half a dozen showers running, and the patter of bare feet on the wet floor; hands shoving him face-first against the wall, hard enough to split his brow; a towel wrapped around his neck like a garrote, and two pairs of hands prying his thighs apart, while the guard looked away. Laughter echoing off blindingly white tiles….

Spike fought down his mounting nausea, wondering what his chances were. There'd be no unexpected rescue this time. He was on his own. If he played nice, would the bastard let him off with a lecture, some spunk in his face, and his dignity ruffled? Probably not, Spike concluded. The way things were going, this was just the opening act. but he said it anyway, forced the words out through gritted teeth. "Got it."

"Good. Now open your mouth and suck it."

The soft, spongy head touched Spike's mouth, playfully tracing its outline like lipstick and leaving behind a moist trail on his lips, before demanding entry with a more insistent push. A musky, masculine scent mingled with the lingering smell of gun oil.

"Open it. I haven't got all day."

Spike took a deep breath and parted his lips, allowing the thick, heavy cock to slide inside.

"There, that's better," Angel said and began to rock his hips, moving in and out of Spike's mouth in a slow steady rhythm, sure shallow thrusts.

Breathing frantically through his nose, Spike fought down his revulsion, desperate to empty his mind. Concentrate on the sensations, he told himself. You can do it. It's like riding a bicycle, it'll come back to you.

Yeah, so he'd done it before, given head without batting an eyelid, but if felt like it happened a lifetime ago. That man no longer existed. He'd shed that skin, had scraped it off, and walked away without ever looking back. Only now this sick bastard of a detective was trying to bring that man back.

"Come on, Blondie. Surely you can do better than that. A bit more enthusiasm, if you please. Use some tongue," Angel said, thrusting harder and deeper, causing the thick, spongy head to scrape along the roof of Spike's mouth, coming uncomfortably close to triggering the gag reflex. " I could get a better suck and swallow than this down in Long Beach, for under fifty bucks. Maybe I didn't make myself clear: You won't leave here until I've got my two thousands worth. And the way things are going you're going to be here a long time."

Try sucking dick with your hands cuffed behind your back, and some jerk holding your head in a vise, Spike thought, but he started to suck and obediently brought his tongue into play, not an easy feat, considering Angel's considerable girth.

After about a dozen or so thrusts, the detective pulled out. "Better," he said. "But I still sense a distinct lack of enthusiasm."

He pulled out and let go of Spike's hair. With one yank, Angel pulled up the front hem of Spike's sweater and pulled it over his head and down to his elbows, where it acted as an additional, but softer restraint. Angel ran his hand over Spike's chest and down to his waistband. Spike knew better than to try to wriggle away. He tried to control his expression and his breathing, when his pants were opened and pushed down to his knees, which was as far as they would go in his current kneeling position.

"See what I mean?" Angel fondled Spike's limp dick for a moment. "I think you need a bit of an incentive. I know just the thing." He rose and walked to the open bedside drawer, the one that held his impressive collection of toys, and rummaged around in it.

Spike's heart was thundering in his chest, with fear, yeah, he'd be stupid not to be afraid. He'd looked into the drawer, earlier, when he'd searched the place. Some of the fake cocks in there were even bigger than Angel's, and that was saying something. He lowered his head.

When the detective returned, he was concealing an object behind his back. He slung an arm around Spike's shoulder to haul him over to the bed. Spike snapped upwards. Putting all his strength into the attack, he threw himself back like a rearing horse, smashing the back of his skull into the other man's face. Hoping to knock Angel out, maybe break his nose. With an audible crack their heads smacked together. It was a teeth-rattling blow, hard enough to make him feel stars. Off-balance, Spike fell sideways and landed hard on his shoulder, almost dislocating it.

He dimly heard Angel go down as well, but not for long. With a hissed curse, the detective picked himself up. When the hail of blows and obscenities came, Spike was almost relieved. Thankfully, the world went dark soon after that.


	3. Chapter 3

Crunching sounds... ice cubes grinding together… and then a sharp smack on his backside. Spike woke with a sharp intake of breath.

"Wakey, wakey," Angel greeted him cheerfully.

Spike found himself draped over the edge of the bed, face pressed into the mattress so he could barely breathe, and with his bare ass sticking out. His shoes and socks were missing, but he was still wearing his pants. Pushed down to his knees, they effectively trapped his legs, making him feel helpless and exposed. He was aching all over. Bracing himself for the agony of broken bones, Spike shifted slightly, but the pain remained a dull, heavy blanket. Nothing broken then, just bruised. Good. He'd taken beatings before, mere pain he could handle.

"Took your time, didn't you?" Detective Angel said conversationally. "Nice try, by the way, What would have come next? A desperate scramble for the gun on the bed?" A half melted ice pack landed on the bed, a few inches away from Spike's face. "I don't know what kind of man you take me for. I'm not a sadist. I wouldn't use my Titanic on you without prepping you first. Anyone forced to earn a living on his or her back deserves a little consideration. Now, where were we?"

Spike squirmed when ice cold hands touched him, ineffectually, because Angel brought his full body weight to into play, holding him down like a ton of bricks. A string of curses lodged in Spike's throat. He didn't doubt, even for a minute, that Angel had meant his body bag threat; that the only way out of this was through compliance. And yet, compliance didn't come easy. "You were going to buy me flowers and chocolate," Spike ground out.

Angel laughed at that. "Cute. I like that."

Spike couldn't help flinching, when a cold blunt object prodded his opening, trying to push inside.

"Relax," Angel said, "or you'll hurt yourself."

Sound advice. Easier said than done. Spike could calm his frantic, panicked breathing. Turning himself into a pliant rag-doll, unflinching and indifferent, proved impossible.

The object was slowly but relentlessly pushed into his body, with regular, rocking motions. Whatever it was, it seemed to be tear-drop-shaped, with a relatively narrow tip but a much thicker base. The material was hard and smooth – glass or acrylic. The tip slid in and out easily, even without lubrication, but as the object's girth widened, more force and persistence were needed to fully drive it home. Inch by inch, the thick plug was worked into Spike's body, slowly but inexorably, right up to the narrower and flanged base. Spike bit his lips, hating every second of this: the other man's weight and his scent of musk, and bourbon and male sweat, Angel's meticulous care and the absence of any real pain. But the thing he hated most was the way his body slowly yielded to the unwelcome intrusion. By the time Angel was done, Spike was dithering between discomfort and pleasure, his heart hammering so loud, his whole body seemed to thrum with its beat. Spike stifled a sob or a gasp, or maybe both.

"There." The detective said, sounding pleased with himself. Spike's pants were pulled back up, thus trapping the insidious plug in place. A moment later, the weight on Spike's back was gone as the other man let him go. "Now get back on your knees." Spike gingerly slid off the bed, easing back into kneeling position, panting from pent-up shame and rage. There was no ignoring the hard, unyielding object inside him. Every time he moved his body seemed to rearrange itself around it. It was a constant reminder of his helplessness, more than the handcuffs that bit into his wrists.

Angel's pants were still open, but his cock was flagging, semi-hard only. Angel sat down on the bed, legs spread, making room for Spike in front of him. "Sit on your heels," he instructed, pushing him down. Spike braced himself for the inevitable jolt of discomfort, but when it came it was coupled with an unwanted rush of heat. Spike was still wriggling, trying to find a less intense position, when Angel grabbed the nape of his neck to steer him forward and down towards his crotch.

"Do you like popsicles?" Angel asked, almost amiably.

Spike glowered, but he took his cue and began to lap and lick, wherever Angel's hand guided him, mouthing the bulbous tip and the thick veins, feeling the organ swell, and harden under his tongue. Hot, throbbing flesh. Soft, silky skin. If this had been his lover's dick, Spike would have enjoyed bringing it to full size, would have reveled in his power to please. He would have greedily lapped up every bitter-salty drop of pre-cum. Would have echoed his lover's groans with moans of his own. Would have deliberately worked himself up by rocking up and down on that plug inside him.

And that was a bad, morbid headspace to be in, because Riley was dead. Had been for over three years, shipped from California State Prison all the way to Iowa and buried in the family plot.

"Ah, yeah," Angel groaned. "That's better. You've got a talented mouth. Now suck it."

The hand that had rested on Spike's neck slid upwards into his hair, gripping a handful for better purchase, guiding him up and down, dictating the pace. Slowly and gently at first, giving Spike a few moments to get used to the size of the hardened flesh in his mouth. With every down stroke of his mouth, Spike had to lean forward; with every upstroke he rocked back on his heels. And with every movement the butt plug inside him made itself felt. Too big, too unwelcome, and too good to be ignored.

Up and down, up and down. Down until the bulging head of Angel's cock lightly touched the back of Spike's mouth, not enough to actually choke him, oh no, just enough to cause his breath to hitch with every stroke. Just enough to elicit tiny breathless sounds that mingled with Angel's harsh panting. Spike realized with horror and searing shame that his own cock was growing heavy.

"Yeah, take it, come on, yeah, you like my cock, don't you?" A salty taste exploded on Spike's tongue, bitter and tangy. Angel was leaking now, and his hips were beginning to twitch uncontrollably.

Groaning, Angel stepped up the pace. Too fast, too deep. Spike struggled against the grip on his hair, tried to shake it off, but a second hand joined the first, and with two hands dictating the pace and the downward thrust of his mouth all he could do was relax his throat and try not to choke. He breathed frantically through his nose, hurried, hiccupy gasps for air. Tears sprang to his eyes. And yet his cock grew to full hardness, stubbornly defying all reason.

"Yeah, that's it. Now let's see how far you can get it in… yeah," Angel ground out, urgently forcing Spike to take his cock deeply into his throat, as far as it would go. Spike gagged, unable to breathe, immediately breaking into a sweat as uncontrollable panic took over. Hand-cuffed, he couldn't even fight. The moment dragged on endlessly while his heart pounded manically inside his chest. He was flapping and squirming like a fish on dry land. Suffocating. His throat was working, trying to dislodge the intruder. And still those hands held on. Held him down, as though pushing him underwater to drown.

Then the pressure was gone and Spike came up, gasping and dry-retching, desperate for air. Trying not to vomit on the fluffy carpet – not because he was too proud, but because in the back of his head he knew that Angel would make him pay.

He was still trembling from exertion, his deep-seated fear of suffocation gradually abating, when Angel grabbed his spit-slick length and started to urgently pleasure himself. His large hand became a feverish blur, as he worked himself to completion. Angel climaxed with a harsh, drawn-out groan, shooting load after load of hot spunk into Spike's face.

As Spike knelt there, rock-hard, his throat sore and jaw aching, with Angel's jism cooling on his heated skin, aching to be filled by something more substantial than a mere plug, Spike knew with a sinking feeling that this was only the beginning.

* * *

On a scale to ten the blowjob rated an 8 or maybe a 9. Angel decided it merited about a hundred bucks. "Good news, Spike. You just reduced your debt by a hundred. See, that wasn't so hard, was it?"

Spike did not reply.

Speaking of 'hard', Angel noticed that his prisoner was sprouting wood. Hot damn, he'd caught himself a right slut. "Hey," he called. "How about I knock another fifty off your debt; bring it down to eighteen fifty?"

Spike raised his head, looking wary. "For what?"

"For getting off."

Spike raised a questioning eyebrow.

"That's right," Angel said, warming to the idea that was slowly taking shape inside his head. "You bring yourself off, and I get to watch."

"Two hundred," Spike said.

Angel's only reply was a dry chuckle.

"One-fifty?"

"Listen, I'm doing you a favor." Angel held up a leather cock ring out from his drawer. "How'd you like to wear one of these until you've fully paid off ally our debts?"

Spike swallowed hard. "A hundred?" There was a hint of pleading in his eyes.

Angel decided to take pity on him and nodded. "A hundred."

For several heartbeats neither of them moved, then Spike did a twisted half-turn, indicating the cuffs that still kept his hands behind his back. "Can't start, unless you open the bloody cuffs."

"You think I'm paying a hundred bucks to watch you jerk off in under two minutes? Think again."

"What do you mean?" Spike asked, although judging by the way all color drained from his face he understood perfectly well what Angel meant.

"Use your imagination. Find something to rub against, or fuck yourself on your plug, I don't care. Just, no hands."

"You bastard!" Spike seethed, trembling with fury.

Angel grinned. "Consider yourself lucky that I'm leaving the plug in." He hopped on the bed, leaned against the headboard and crossed his legs, making a great show out of getting comfortable. He pointed his hand at Spike, miming the push of a remote button.

Something about the utter loathing in Spike's eyes briefly made Angel's stomach flutter, but the moment passed and he could already feel himself hardening again in anticipation. He was just getting started.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to Sangpassionne

Scowling, Spike lifted one shoulder and twisted and contorted his neck in an attempt to wipe the other man's spunk off his face, without great success.

How much for a man's dignity? How much for his self-respect? Apparently the going rate was a hundred bucks.

Instead of picturing a small wad of bills, Spike translated that figure into a succession of colorful squares on a playing board. Snakes and Ladders coupled with Truth or Dare. It all boiled down to one thing: if he wanted to walk free, he'd have to play Angel's game. Angel had the gun, Angel made the rules.

And right now Angel was sitting on the bed, cradling a glass of Bourbon, and giving the impression of a keen spectator. His gun lay within easy reach on the other puffed up pillow, like a king's scepter. He was fully dressed, but his pants were still open. Spike wrenched his gaze away.

It was just sex, right? Meaningless. He'd had sex before for no better reason than the fact that he was horny and the opportunity was there. Sometimes just for a roof over his head and a warm meal, years ago, when all his money went into drugs. Just sex. And that was probably how all whores thought of themselves.

"I'm waiting," Angel said. He patted the bed invitingly. "You may use the bed, if you like."

Spike shook his head, not trusting himself to speak, and stayed on his knees. Maybe later.

He closed his eyes, blocking out his captor's leer, and rocked experimentally on his haunches, causing the thick plug to move inside him. It didn't exactly push in and out, there wasn't enough leeway for that, but there was some small amount of friction, and if he changed the angle, well, he could make it feel good, oh yes. The question was, could he get off like this? Maybe, but not without turning on the porn theatre inside his head.

He briefly considered tapping into memories of Tara: womanly curves and full, supple breasts; but those memories, didn't belong here. They felt wrong, out of place, as though they belonged to someone else. In a way they did, because right now he had little in common with the white picket fence husband and father he'd woken up as this morning.

He quickly flicked through a succession of fantasies, mostly images of faces, dicks, and hands. Yet none of the one-night stands, fuck buddies, or actors did it for him today, not even Brian Kinney. Riley then. More appropriate anyway.

Riley with his strong, hard body and his frightening stamina; his muscles perfectly toned because he thought he owed it to his body to make the most of it; Riley with his large hands, his big cock, and his huge smile.

Spike rocked up and down, slowly and steadily, gradually building up tension. Tingling waves of arousal washed all over his body. They were laced with anger and embarrassment, but still pleasurable.

Riley, yeah. The kind of guy who couldn't hear the word 'fuck' without a blush creeping up his neck, even after years spent in jail. Who could slowly and steadily fuck you senseless with deep, carefully aimed thrusts, until the build-up made you so desperate, you bit your knuckles to muffle your whimpers – but who couldn't say 'fuck' out loud. Riley, who always used to thrust a little harder and faster whenever Spike whispered sweet obscenities into his ear.

Riley who always lasted for ages, except when Spike straddled him to furiously fuck himself on his cock. Oh yeah. Spike broke into a sweat, almost able to feel Riley's cock move inside him, so thick and, fuck, yes, so very hard; Riley's cock, yes – not some piece of acrylic, no, not at all, but a hot, live cock, with a thick bulbous head teasing him, stretching him. Almost too much, almost, but also never quite enough, and always over too soon….

No matter how much he tried to immerse himself in his fantasy, or how hard he tried to push Angel's presence from his mind, Spike could sense the detective's eyes on him, hot like a branding iron. He realized he was chewing on his bottom lip in concentration, and forced his features to relax, determined to cheat Angel out of his voyeuristic pleasure any way he could. No grimaces, no sounds, no mindless rutting, not if he could help it….

But as he worked himself up, eyes still squeezed shut, he found himself going faster and faster, grinding down harder, increasingly desperate for more friction, and deeper penetration. He was definitely getting into it, yes. Every now and then a lucky downward push would make him arch and cant his hips, causing his cock to bob up and down, jutting into thin air, rock-hard and, yeah, pretty urgent, desperate for a tight ass or hand to thrust into, heck, for any kind of friction.

Spike heard panting, heavy breathing that matched his own, and rhythmic sounds of skin chafing against skin. The realization that Angel was jerking off to the sight of him trying to get off made Spike's cock jump and leak.

More, yes! He had the angle right now, and the right rhythm. Yes. Panting, Spike bobbed up and down, fucking himself on the hard piece of acrylic inside him, straining towards release. Only there was no goal post, no finishing line. He was wound up like a spinning top, spurred into ever faster rotations with every smack of the whip, but he never got anywhere, just danced on one spot, faster and faster. He ground his ass against his bare heel, pushing the plug in as deeply as it would go. More, more, his body screamed. Spike stifled a whimper. He started to clench his internal muscles rhythmically, as though to wring an orgasm from that thing inside him. He rapidly went through fantasies and images, but nothing could push him over. It was infuriating. All he needed were his hands back for ten seconds, a few hard strokes would do the trick….

Glass clanked against glass, the suddenness of the sound breaking Spike's rhythm, causing him to freeze. Liquid spilled audibly from a bottle. Whiskey fumes wafted into his nose. Spike swallowed, his concentration shot to hell, which brought him back to the lingering bitterness of Angel's pre-cum in his mouth.

Heart hammering in his chest, he opened his eyes to glare at the man on the bed.

"Oops," Angel said, and it was impossible to tell if the interruption had been incidental or deliberate. He raised his glass. "Wanna drink?"

Spike exhaled explosively. It came out like a whimper. Frustration made his eyes sting. His body felt like a coil about to be sprung, tense to the point of breakage. Way too hard, and way too hot, held together by sweat-damp skin two sizes too small, while his heart felt at least one size to big, about to burst out of his chest.

Shoulders slumped he sat on his heels, swallowing convulsively, trying to calm his breathing. He nodded, eager to wet his sore and dry throat, but then turned the gesture into a stubborn headshake. "Can't afford it," he ground out.

Angel studied him impassively, for five, maybe ten heartbeats, then he slid towards Spike until he sat beside him and raised the glass to his lips. "This one's for free," he said, tilting the glass, enabling Spike to drink, one mouthful at a time.

Spike drank with greedy gulps, welcoming the slow burn down his throat and the warmth in his stomach, but at the same worried that if he spilled something, Angel would make him pay.

"Now, what do we say?" Angel asked cheerfully.

Spike kept his features neutral. "Thanks."

Angel nodded, apparently satisfied, poured himself another double and set glass and bottle down on the bedside drawer. "Carry on."

Panting, Spike studied his surroundings. He had no intention of rubbing off against the carpet. That left only the bed. Taking a deep breath, Spike rose to his feet, walked around the bed and waited in front of the empty half.

Angel wordlessly pulled back the covers and moved the gleaming gun from the pillow to the drawer on the other side of the bed.

Spike climbed on the bed and lay down, awkwardly trying to get comfortable. His whole body was thrumming with need, yearning for release. He tried lying on his side, but that soon cut off the circulation in the arm that had to carry all his weight. If he lay on his back he had no friction for his cock. He'd heard of guys flexible enough to suck their own cocks, but thankfully he wasn't one of them. He couldn't imagine anything more undignified. His squick-o-meter was maybe not quite as finely tuned as Riley's had been, but there were limits to what he was willing to do – even if his life was on the line.

Okay, dry-humping the mattress wasn't much better, but at least he could do it face down. It was one way of holding back, of keeping part of him to himself, away from Angel's jaded scrutiny.

He rolled onto his stomach to trap his aching erection between his stomach and the mattress. Although prepared for a rush of pleasure, he still gasped and tensed uncontrollably, when the tip of his leaking cock dragged over smooth Egyptian cotton. Oh god, yes, friction, at last! It felt like he was only a few thrusts from coming. With a sigh of relief, Spike began to hump the bed, his face pressed into the cool pillow. It had a clean and fresh laundry smell. At least it muffled his rugged breathing and his tiny, high pitched whimpers of need.

With every thrust of his hips the sensitive tip of his cock was dragged over soft fabric, and with every thrust the hard and unyielding plug inside his ass made itself felt. God, he hated that thing, how good it felt and yet not good enough. He needed more, needed hard, deep thrusts. The desperate need to beg rose inside him, and he bit into the pillow to keep the words inside.

It felt as though his release was just around the corner, only a little bit further, all he had to do was keep at it, thrust harder, without stopping, a Sisyphus job, like rolling a boulder up a mountain, not allowed to stop, not even for a second, 'cause if he did, he'd come down again, lose that keen edge of need that was required to finally make it over the edge.

Tremors racked his body, He needed… needed something. Something more, to push him over. A touch, a word, a real cock.

"Say you want me to fuck you," Angel's voice reached him, hoarse and breathless. "And I'll make it cheap…"

"No!" Spike stubbornly shook his head, never breaking his stride. He could do this. He was so close… his whole body arching like a strung bow, he wormed one hand under the waistband of his open pants, fumbling for the flanged base of the plug. His fingers closed around smooth acrylic, slipped, but then he managed to get two fingers hooked around the base. Enough purchase to pull it out a whole two inches and then plunge it back in. Hard.

Spike threw his head back, open-mouthed, yes, yes, fuck! Almost his whole weight was on his cock now. A breathless shuddering whine burst from his lips. More, he needed more…His hips jerked a few times, thrust, thrust, thrust, and creak, creak, creak, the bedsprings accompanied his thrusts, along with slick scuffing sounds of skin on skin – Angel was frantically jerking off, causing the whole bed to rock with his urgent rhythm… Spike's cheeks clenched around the thick plug inside his ass… once more: out and in… out and in… God, please….Angel… Fuckmefuckmefuckme please… Almost there! …

Almost. And almost gave no sign of making way. Defeated, and with a strangled sound, Spike slumped forward, bathed in sweat, to bury his frustrated sobs in the pillow. Still so very hard. Tears sprang to his eyes.

"Holy shit," There was a note of awe in Angel's voice. "Yeah, come on, don't give up now, you're almost there… come on, fuck yourself with that plug, yeah … I want to see you come!"

Spike could feel Angel's hand speeding up, his urgency was enough to rock the whole bed, enough to make the mattress vibrate against his cock. One more try. Spike started thrusting again, frantically rubbing against the mattress, crawling like a caterpillar, more more more, then arching and groping for the plug again, fuck fuck fuck…

"Yeah come for me," Angel shouted, jerking in the throes of his release. "yeah, fuck… Come for me…"

Oh… yes … please. Something inside him burst. Spike gasped for breath, open-mouthed, slack-jawed, tasting the overpowering smell of sex in the air, that intoxicating mix of male sweat and come… Fuck, yes! One more hard thrust and he scraped his cock over sheets that were already damp with pre-cum, and suddenly a hot ball of fire seemed to build in his nuts, and then, a shock-wave of almost painful heat washed over his entire body, stopping his breath with its intensity, freezing him in that moment for several heartbeats, before he fell forward, on his face, depleted, and shuddering, dousing the mattress with his come….

And for a few minutes the world was quiet, except for their rugged breathing.


	5. Chapter 5

Holy shit. It was like mantra in Angel's head. He stared at the spent, sated body in his bed, and the large wet stain that darkened the sheets underneath Spike's hips, and all he could think was 'holy shit.'

He honestly hadn't thought Spike could do it. The plan had been to make him beg, then take the place of that plug and fuck his prisoner through the mattress. But this? Angel could still see purple spots dancing in front of his eyes, and his whole body was abuzz, just from jerking off. He glanced at the spunk on his cock and his hand and shuddered, racked by another bolt of pleasure. Holy shit!

Spike lay facedown on his belly, panting, one hand still half-way inside his open pants. The other hand hung limply from his hip, held in suspension by the taut chain between the cuffs. Both wrists bore deep marks where the cuffs had bitten into his flesh. Spike wore a wedding band, so he was either married or committed. His skin – evenly tanned in a warm outdoorsy tone of bronze – was flushed, and shiny with sweat. His sun-bleached hair was plastered to his head in a mass of damp curls.

Fuck! His Nikon, Angel remembered, was downstairs in the garage, inside the locked trunk of his car.

He caught a slight tremor coursing through his prisoner's body. Slut.

Angel wondered what his prisoner did when he wasn't breaking into people's houses. Either he was one of those surfer beach bums, or he had some kind of outdoors job. He looked tough, but too slight for construction work. A pool boy or gardener? Yeah, that made sense, probably scouting out places to break into, during the day job.

A nasty thought popped into Angel's brain. What if he charged his prisoner with the costs for dry cleaning the sheets? Only, he had to admit in all fairness, that he'd just gotten more than his money's worth. Part of him was still reeling with surprise and shock at how quickly his bluff and mind-game had become reality. At the same time, a tiny, petty part of him felt cheated. He'd wanted to hear Spike talk, had wanted to hear him beg and sob….

"You're rank," Angel said, more harshly than he'd intended, wiping his spunk-sticky hand on Spike's heated flank. "You need a shower or a bath."

The pillow rustled, as Spike slowly turned his head to stare at him. Angel was again struck by the deep blue of the man's eyes. Spike looked dazed, heavy-lidded, his face damp and flushed, his lips swollen – thoroughly fucked. Angel had never seen anything more irresistible.

Then the bitter curve of the mouth deepened and eyes narrowed with loathing as the thin veneer of afterglow was boiled away. Angel caught only a glimpse of it, before Spike lowered his gaze, but it was enough to make Angel's stomach crawl.

"How much?" Spike finally asked, his tone laced with disdain.

Angel had been inclined to let him shower for free, but the barely concealed insubordination in his prisoner's tone called for a lesson in manners. "Twenty-five," Angel said, trying to gauge just how desperately his prisoner wanted to clean himself up.

"The plug?"

"Goes back inside, once you're done."

A sullen, mulish look crossed Spike's face and he shook his head, but apparently he knew better than to mouth off, for he kept his mouth shut. Good.

"Never mind then," Angel said and gestured towards the bathroom door. "D'you need to pee or take a dump?"

Slow, silent headshake.

"Lie down."

Spike slumped back on the pillow, face down.

Angel dug the key for the cuffs out of his pocket, and then, with his gun cocked, he unlocked one of the cuffs. "Hands above your head," he instructed.

Spike obeyed. The empty cuff clanked against the brass headboard. Pinning Spike down with a precautionary knee between his shoulder blades, Angel threaded the empty cuff around a sturdy bar of metal, before snapping it shut around Spike's wrist again. His prisoner was now effectively chained to the bed, with his arms above his head, but all in all it should be more comfortable than his previous position. He should probably do something about the man's legs. Maybe later.

He slipped out of bed, picked up the covers from the floor and flung them over the prone man.

After a minute or two, Spike moved, turning and twisting until he lay on his side, facing away from his captor. Cradling his head in his arms, he stilled, curled up in an almost fetal position.

Angel allowed himself a smile and headed for the bathroom to take a shower.

* * * * * * *

Spike waited until sounds of running water and splashing traveled through the open bathroom door, before he moved. The cuffs didn't give him a lot of room to move, but it still beat having his hands tied behind his back. He sat up, wincing when the plug shifted inside him.

With the fucking psycho cop out of sight, he found his self-control slipping. His hands were shaking, fuck, his whole body had the shakes. Spike wiped his face on his bare arm, then used a corner of the sheet to furiously scrub the wetness off his stomach. He'd once talked to a male hooker who'd claimed that after a long hot bath he always felt as clean as the day he was born. Yeah, and pigs could fly. No amount of water was ever going to wash this off.

He willed himself to calm down until his hands no longer shook, before investigating the frame of the bed and the headboard. There had to be a weakness, something he could bend or break to gain his freedom. Or a piece of wire to pick the locks of the cuffs. It took several minutes of desperate tugging and searching, and of trying to squeeze out of the metal cuffs, for the realization to sink in: there was no way out, not without a saw, lock picks, or a gun. Unfortunately, Angel wasn't a man who took chances. He'd taken the gun with him into the bathroom.

A fox or wolf would gnaw off its own limb to get out of a trap. For an insane moment Spike toyed with the idea of dislocating his own thumb, to slip out of the cuffs. Only the cuffs were pretty tight, so even with a dislocated thumb he'd need some slick to get out. Slick. Angel's drawer. Plenty of lube in there – but on the other side of the bed, out of reach. Maybe if he tried to open it with his foot….

The splatter of running water ceased, as the shower was turned off. A moment later, Spike heard the door of the shower stall opening and closing. Steam billowed out of the open bathroom door, heralding Angel's return.

There would be other opportunities, Spike told himself, as he slowly eased back under the covers, the bitter taste of defeat in his mouth.

* * * * * * * * *

Feeling clean and clear-headed, Angel stalked into the bedroom wearing his gun and nothing else. His prisoner lay huddled under his covers in the exact same position that Angel had left him in. Asleep or faking it? Angel didn't care.

It was freaky. For a second, when he'd stepped out of the bathroom, it had looked as though Darla were back, as standoffish as ever, giving him the cold shoulder. Bitch. Angel shrugged, slipped into a clean pair of boxers, and climbed into bed. He turned on the TV and zapped through the sports channels without really paying attention, his thoughts revolving around his suspension. His initial indignation was spent now, not entirely, but enough to allow him to think rationally.

Let Internal Affairs snoop through his files and finances. There was nothing to find. No inexplicable payments into his account, no big purchases without receipts or traceable financing, no drugs, no nothing. Angel was as clean as a whistle. He'd get his badge back, that much was certain.

He picked up the alarm clock and turned it off. Thanks to his suspension there was no need for getting up early.

He turned off the light and lay down, facing his prisoner. It was dark, but not too dark to see the curve of Spike's shoulder. He seemed to be asleep, but once, before sleep claimed him, Angel thought he saw his prisoner's shoulders racked by silent sobs.


	6. Chapter 6

"If that creep Rack bothers you again, say the word," Riley murmured into his ear, awkwardly trying to push down Spike's pants. Spike lifted his hips off the mattress to help matters along.

"You know, you really don't belong here, mate," Spike said, teasingly. "Such a white hat. Always lookin' out for me."

"You'd do the same for me," Riley said.

"Yeah, 'cause I can be right intimidating," Spike ground out, panting with impatience.

The bunk bed was way too cramped for two grown men, especially when one of them was six foot two and built like a freaking athlete, with biceps as thick as other men's thighs, but Spike loved being sandwiched between the wall and the strong shield of Riley's body. There were times when it came as a relief to have one's choices narrowed. Not that Spike would ever admit to that.

Riley wormed a slick finger into Spike's body while rocking against him. His hard-on slid silkily over Spike's thigh and buttock, painting a cooling trail of moisture on his skin. Spike stifled a gasp.

One of the things you learned in prison, besides fixing cars or folding laundry, was silence. You never got vocal when your cell mate thrust into you, never spurred him on to fuck you harder, faster; never shouted when he brought you off in the tightness of his fist. Sounds traveled far, especially at night. You bit your lip, chewed on the inside of your mouth if you had to, and kept the tell-tale moans and groans locked inside.

Behind him, Riley was breathing heavily. A second digit joined the first, and Spike thrust back and forth, saying with his body what he wouldn't say out loud: More. Yes, do me. Fuck me, fuck me, fuckmefuckme…

He woke with a whimper and a keen need in his groin, alternately jerking into a warm, tight channel, and impaling himself on what he came to recognize as two fingers that were preparing him. It took him half a dozen thrusts to remember that Riley was dead and where he was; that he was chained to the bed, held taut by police issue handcuffs, and that the fingers fucking him belonged to the man he'd sworn to destroy.

The knowledge did nothing to dampen the burning need that made his hips twitch and jerk back and forth, or the dizzying arousal that doused his body in sweat.

"Get off me," Spike exploded in a flurry of fury and dismay, kicking and jerking against the chain and against the hand that gripped his dick, trying to hurt maim kill the man behind him. His kicks were badly aimed and ineffective, hampered by the pants that had been pulled down to his knees. A few times his heels glanced off the other man's shins, but Angel quickly slipped out of bed and out of reach. Spike twisted in his cuffs, causing the whole bed to rock. The violent pull on the metal bands broke the skin, but the pain barely registered. All Spike felt was pure, white-hot rage. "Fuck off, you sick cunt!"

* * * * * * * * * *

Taken aback by the barrage of obscenities that suddenly spewed from his prisoner's mouth, Angel snapped: "Who're you calling a cunt? A minute ago you were jonesing to take it up the ass, humping my fingers like a bitch in heat."

Spike scrambled into a crouch at the top of the bed, no longer futilely fighting his restraints, but watching Angel like a vicious guard-dog that knew the bounds of its chain. His eyes shone with loathing. One step too close and he'd snap. Blood trickled down his arms, and yet he was still hard. "Only you're not the one I'm hot for," he snarled.

Angel smiled. Something dark and gleeful uncoiled inside him. He nodded at Spike's plain silver wedding band. It looked as though it hadn't been taken off in years. "Right," Angel said pleasantly, aware that a friendly tone sliced deeper than insults, "next you'll tell me you were thinking about the little wife with my fingers up your ass."

Spike flinched. An aghast, shattered expression crossed his face, and his lips moved without sound. Angel was reminded of a kicked puppy, and for a second, he regretted his words. And yet an inexplicable, overwhelming urge to crush spurred him on.

"Tell me," Angel continued, "does she know you like cock?"

The expected furious outbreak never came. For several heartbeats, Spike was silent, albeit breathing rapidly, nostrils flaring. A muscle in his jaw jumped erratically. When he finally spoke, his voice was strained but calm. "Let me go."

"Not just yet. You owe me. I told you before, Blondie, you're not walking free before that debt is paid in full."

"If it's about the money—" Spike started.

"I don't want your stolen money," Angel cut him off. He started to circle the bed, forcing his prisoner to shift in order to keep him in sight. "In fact, you should know better than to offer a cop money."

Spike's mouth tensed into a mutinous twitch– almost imperceptibly, but Angel caught it anyway.

"It's not the money, it's the principle," Angel said, wiping his lube-slick hand on the sheets, before picking up his holster and pulling the gun out to ostentatiously check the chambers. "I think you need to be taught a lesson."

"Oh yeah? What lesson? That the gun is mightier than the law?"

Angel had interrogated enough perps to recognize the remark for what it was, one last gesture of defiance; Blondie was getting ready to roll over and bare his throat.

"I'm going to teach you to respect other people's property. And their privacy." Angel didn't need to nod at his drawer of toys. His prisoner understood. "Now strip."

Spike hesitated.

"If you know what's good for you, you'll bend over like the good little whore you are, and you'll take it. It's as simple as that."

Spike bristled. "I'm not—" He broke off, biting his lip.

Smart. Angel waited. His prisoner had the short end of the stick and he knew it. Time to make him heel.

With a forced shrug, Spike obeyed, awkwardly shoving his pants down the rest of the way and dropping them to the floor. "Look, I'm sorry about your mirror," he said with obvious effort, his gaze lowered. "And the suit."

"Not good enough," Angel said, but he smiled, relishing his victory. A small part of him knew that he was making his prisoner pay for the way his life had fallen apart. Angel knew that he was going too far, that he'd already crossed lines that had been sacrosanct mere months ago. But he couldn't have stopped now, even if he'd wanted to. Something about Spike pushed Angel's buttons. Maybe it was the simmering defiance in his glance, that intoxicating cocktail of insubordination and compliance.

"Get on your knees and turn around. Hands on the headboard."

Spike made no move to turn. "Just like I thought. My road to redemption 's gonna be paved with old-fashioned buggery. And how far is taking it up the ass gonna get me?"

"Are you haggling with me?" Angel asked harshly, with more than a hint of steel in his voice.

"It's what whores do, right?" Spike said with a bitter chuckle. His tone made Angel's toes curl.

"Two-fifty, if you do everything I say." The offer was too high, but Angel was getting impatient. He was so hard, it hurt. All he wanted now was to get off.

For a second, Spike looked on the verge of bargaining, but then he turned to obey. Gripping the ornate headboard with both hands, knuckles white, Spike knelt facing away from Angel, his head and torso lowered, like a good little doggy. His skin looked golden in the warm glow of morning. With his lean limbs and his small but well-rounded ass, he was easily the most beautiful sight Angel had ever set eyes on.


	7. Chapter 7

If Spike turned his head just a little to the side, he could watch Angel's movements in the wall-to-wall mirror.

The detective stuffed the gun back into its holster and placed it at the foot end of the bed, out of Spike's reach, but where Angel himself could grab it any time. He picked up the bottle of lube that lay on the floor, slipped out of his boxers, freeing his erection, then climbed on the bed, cock bobbing. The mirror reflected every detail with harrowing precision.

Spike tore his gaze away to stubbornly stare at the crumpled pillow he'd slept on. The mattress tilted and rocked under his knees, rhythmic, inappropriately bouncy quakes that heralded Angel's approach. When the tremors stopped, Spike knew without having to look, that Angel was kneeling behind him.

He tried to relax, and convince his body to achieve a modicum of acceptance, impatient to get this over with. The skin on his neck prickled.

The mattress bobbed again when Angel leaned sideways to reach into his drawer.

Spike's nervousness increased tenfold, only to slowly trickle away, when he spotted the little pack of foil in Angel's hand. A condom.

A minute later something cold and moist touched him, not yet pushing inside, but pressing and rubbing against him. First the thick head of Angel's cock, then its entire length, spreading slick between Spike's cheeks, rubbing, stroking, teasing, up and down, up and down, then pausing, occasionally nudging against his opening. The bastard was toying with him.

Spike trembled in spite of himself.

A hand reached around his waist to fondle his dick, presumably to check if it was still stiff. It was. Engorged and heavy, and to Spike's dismay it twitched eagerly in Angel's huge palm. Angel gripped his cock firmly and jerked a few times in a fast, punishing rhythm, almost wrenching a gasp of pleasure from Spike's lips.

Funny how shame could make you shrink until you felt agoraphobic inside your own body, Spike thought disjointedly. If only his cock would shrink as well.

Then the hand changed its grip to Spike's ass, strong and possessive.

Angel aligned himself and pushed forward, still not insistently enough to forge inside – just with enough pressure to give Spike a taste of what was coming, which was probably what the bastard wanted.

The world narrowed down to two distinct sensations: Spike's own labored and frantic chuffing, loud enough in his ears to drown out Angel's breathing, and the blunt thickness prodding him.

"What're you waiting for?" Spike blurted out, unnerved.

He was surprised when Angel answered him. "Something's missing."

"Oh yeah? What's that?"

The pressure disappeared, and Angel reached into the accursed drawer again, rummaging noisily. Spike tensed at the sound and peeked sideways.

Angel's hand returned with a huge fake cock, not quite as large as his own, but realistic looking, flesh-colored and veiny. He dropped it on the sheet. Like an astral object following the gravity of a black hole, the toy tumbled down the incline that Spike's weight made in the mattress and came to lie next to Spike's knee.

"Don't eyeball me," Angel snapped, and Spike turned away for more pillow gazing.

This time, when Angel pulled his hand out of the drawer, Spike heard a metal clank.

"Up," Angel commanded, using one hand to steer Spike into a position where his thighs, hips, torso, and head were vertical, paralleling Angel's own body.

Spike complied. Two hundred and fifty, a tiny voice in his head tried to cheer him up. He tried to ignore the weighty slap of Angel's cock against his back, and the coldness where it smeared him with lube.

A hand grabbed his throat and then cold scratchy metal was threaded round his neck. Fuck! Spike shook his head, but too late, with a foreboding snap the solid chain was fastened and settled round his throat, snug and heavy.

"Better," Angel said, his voice dripping with satisfaction. "Perfect fit. Suits you to a tee."

"My, you're a kinky bastard, aren't you?" Spike ground out, still trying to come to terms with the new development. "And didn't you know that playing dress up costs extra?"

"Shut up, bitch, unless you want to wear one of the dresses from the closet."

It was a direct order. Spike swallowed another comeback.

The metal felt icy and heavy, and it scratched uncomfortably. Spike craned his neck to get a look at it, but the collar was too tight. He belatedly remembered the mirror and stared at his reflection.

The weight around his neck wasn't just a chain, it was a prong collar, the kind used for disobedient dogs. If the owner pulled on the chain, the prongs pivoted in their joints and dug into the dog's fur. Luckily, the tips of the prongs appeared to be rounded. As long as nobody yanked on the chain they irritated but didn't injure the skin.

Fuck!

Behind him, Angel was changing positions, positioning his cock again, but this time the angle was different. Angel was kneeling on his haunches, his erect cock vertical, but still aiming at Spike's ass.

Suddenly their eyes met in the mirror. Angel's smirk was like a stab in the gut. Spike wrenched his gaze away, to stare at his own hands instead, and at the metal cuffs round his wrists.

A light downward tug on the collar, and the sensation of blunted prongs boring into his throat took Spike's breath away. Fuck.

"Ride me," Angel said hoarsely. "Fuck yourself on my cock. The way you fucked yourself on that plug. I know you want to feel my cock inside you. Do it."

Spike gasped, because, yes, the words surged down his spine and slammed into his balls with breathtaking force. And yes, he was still aroused from his dream about Riley, and maybe even the scene itself, which could have been incredible – with the right guy.

 

Maybe that was the key to this. Sending a silent apology to Riley, wherever he might be, Spike tried to relax while slowly lowering himself on the slick shaft.

He'd been forced to sleep with a thick plug inside him and he'd woken up with Angel's lube-slick fingers preparing him, even so the girth of the man's cock was almost too much. His body stubbornly resisted the intrusion. Spike broke into a sweat as he rocked up and down on the blunt tip, not to tease, but because, frankly, that last ounce of courage and determination was hard to muster.

When he heard his captor groan with impatience, Spike half expected Angel to slam inside or to brutally yank him down by his collar, but maybe there was some decency left in the man, because Spike could hear him thumbing the lid off the lube. More slick. Thank god for small mercies. Spike squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated on his task, concentrated on the memory of Riley's cock sliding into him.

He gasped with relief when the thick bulbous head finally made it past the outer ring and plunged inside, filling him like only Riley had ever filled him before. Holy shit. Spike bit his lip, to stifle a whimper. As he sank down, fully impaling himself, clinging to memories of elsewhen and elsewhere in his head, Spike could feel his body rearrange itself around the hot hardened flesh inside him. Ho. Ly. Fuck.

"About time," Angel groaned, shattering the illusion. And: "God, you're tight."

Spike shook his head brushing off Angel's words. Fingers clenched around the ornate headboard, he pulled himself up, lifting his hips only to sink down, again, and again, up, down, up, down, steadily riding his captor's cock. It shouldn't feel good, but it did. Spike knew he'd be stupid to wish for pain, that he should be grateful that Angel was more interested in breaking his spirit than his body, but – fuck! – it shouldn't feel like coming home.

Whatever. No time for that, not now. Angel had asked him to fuck himself, so that's what Spike did, selfishly pursuing his own pleasure. Dictating the angle and force of each down stroke, he stubbornly – and silently – chased his own release.

Rugged breathing came from behind him, along with a string of exclamations, "oh yeah," or "fuck," or "harder," giving their coupling a cheap porn flick soundtrack. Occasionally, Angel reached around to roughly grab Spike's cock and balls. Not to bring Spike off, no. Judging by hoarsely muttered expletives like "slut" and "greedy whore" it simply gave the man a kick to feel the evidence of his prisoner's arousal. Evidently, the detective got off on this, on his whore getting off on his cock… For a second, Spike faltered. Okay, that train of thought wasn't good. He brushed it off, like a dog shakes water off it's fur, and concentrated on his own pleasure and on staying silent.

Climbing, climbing, faster and faster, hurtling towards the cliff like a lemming, desperate for friction, if only he could touch his own cock, just a few strokes, friction, pleasepleaseplease….

Spike panted with mounting frustration.

The next time Angel's hand groped his cock, Spike was ready for it, unleashing a fantasy of his own: Angel, handcuffed and naked on his knees with his own fucking plug in his ass, alternately sucking Spike's and Riley's cocks. Wham! Four, five pumping motions were enough, and Spike's cock pulsed in Angel's fist.

"Fuck!" Angel exclaimed, clearly taken by surprise, when Spike's come spilled over his fingers – and without permission. He let go, jerking back his hand, but too late, Spike spent himself, shaking and twitching around Angel's cock.

He dimly heard a drawn out moan from behind him and then Angel's cock slammed into him, a dozen times, hard, almost brutally, sending another searing blast of dizzying pleasure through his body. Mixed with just a hint of pain it overtook the abating eddies of Spike's first climax. The soles of his feet burned as though he was treading on glowing coals. A toe-curling pressure built inside him, a loud howl that sprang up in his toes, rushed up his trembling flanks, up, up, up his rigid spine to slam into his brain, faster than Spike could bite his lips to keep it in. And yet, when the howl broke free it only came out as a voiceless gasp, an explosive discharge of breath, reined in at the last moment. It was the only act of rebellion open to him.

Angel, on the other hand, came with a loud, keening wail, that reverberated in the silence of Spike's climax.


	8. Chapter 8

Panting harshly, his cock slowly softening in Spike's ass, Angel hung draped over the shaking body of his prisoner trying to piece together something resembling coherent thought. He'd been had, he was certain of it. Cheated out of hearing his prisoner beg and shout and whimper. Worse, Spike's speedy climax had cheated him out of shoving the dildo deeply into his prisoner's throat and riding the convulsions of Spike's body as he gagged around the plastic cock.

And yet, Blondie had only done what Angel had ordered him to do. Fuck!

Angel sniffed. They were both more than rank, covered in shiny sheen of sweat. There was no point in demanding that Spike pay for his shower; if he dug his heels in, Angel would be stuck with the stench.

Stubborn little shit! But his ass was to die for.

* * * * * * * * * *

"Next time you don't come unless I tell you to, is that clear?" Angel said in a sour tone, as he shoved his hand-cuffed prisoner under the running shower.

Spike nodded meekly, careful to hide every trace of his glee.

Fifteen hundred and fifty.

It didn't matter that the water was stone cold.

* * * * * * * * * *

And that's how things went for the next few days.

Spike spent most of his hours cuffed to Angel's bed, unless he had to use the bathroom or unless Angel told him to shower. He even ate there, sad, unappealing meals that still beat prison chow by a mile.

Once, Angel ordered him to clean the bathroom with a toothbrush. Spike didn't mind. Apparently, that took most of the fun out of the punishment, because Angel invented no more tasks along those lines. Instead, he used his prisoner three or four times a day. On top of his considerable sexual appetite and kinky imagination, the bastard also had frightening stamina.

Every evening Spike turned his back on Angel's half of the bed, even though it meant facing the huge mirror that covered the wall on his side of the bed. Every evening he stared at the spider web of cracks in the glass and at the one long fracture that zigzagged down like a jagged dagger and cut his reflection in half. He tried not to think about Tara and home, and about whether he still had a job if—no, when he finally made it out of here. He held on to the slow countdown instead:

Fourteen hundred. Twelve fifty. One grand. Nine hundred….

Snakes and Ladders, that's all it was, Spike reminded himself, before squeezing his eyes shut and forcing himself to sleep.

In the mornings Spike always woke with a flinch, cuffs rattling. Pulse hammering in his throat, he'd watch a faint hue of peach crawl into the bedroom from the balcony door, while listening to Angel's even, untroubled breathing behind him. Waiting for the man to shove his morning hard-on up his ass.

* * * * * * * * * *

"Say you want me to fuck you," Angel said one morning, pushing slick fingers into Spike's body, hitting the prostate with every thrust.

"I want you to fuck me," Spike said promptly – in his most bored voice.

"Again, with more enthusiasm," Angel commanded, smacking Spike's backside with his palm.

"Please, fuck me," Spike said, managing to sound even less convincing, more like an illiterate actor trying to rehearse a porn script. He knew Angel was watching his face in the mirror and tried to keep his smirk under lock and key.

Angel did not ask again.

However, it turned out he owned an impressive collection of floggers and paddles and with them he proceeded to make Spike gasp and whimper. But he never got him to beg, either way.

* * * * * * * * * *

The only time they ever talked was when Angel gave orders or when he said how he wanted it. Sometimes they haggled. A few times Angel tried to strike up a conversation, about the penal system, Spike's time in prison, even hockey. Spike's answers were always curt, closed off.

At the time of his son's match in another part of town, Angel sat on his prisoner's chest and fucked his mouth for almost an hour, sometimes in slow shallow thrusts, sometimes slamming deep into his throat. Every time Spike gagged, his whole body arching and bucking underneath Angel's weight, Angel felt like a bull rider. Afterwards Angel jerked off, giving Spike a pearl necklace to go with his prong collar, but he still felt restless, dissatisfied. He dug out his biggest toy, a dildo over two inches thick, slicked it up and slowly and meticulously fucked his whore with that, concentrating on his task, never wasting a thought on innings and batting scores.

It soon got him hard again. He left he toy inside, and fucked Spike's throat again. This time he made him swallow.

Afterwards, he un-cuffed Spike's right hand. "You can get off now," he said, pouring himself a stiff drink. "Take out the toy, if you want."

He watched Spike fumble with the strap of the cock ring. The thing was difficult to remove one-handed, but Angel felt no compunction to help. With visible relief, Spike freed his boner. Then he grabbed the dildo and gingerly pulled it out and placed both objects on the towel Angel had placed on the bed.

"You want to watch me beat off it's gonna cost you," Spike said.

Feeling cheated, Angel chained him up again and headed off to take a shower.

* * * * * * * * * *

On the fourth day, Angel finally caved and asked something he'd wondered about ever since spotting the silver wedding band on Spike's hand.

"How long have you been married?"

Spike frowned but did not reply.

"Do you have kids?"

"You gonna fuck me, or what?" Spike lay on his back, thighs parted, a bored look on his face, while Angel knelt between his legs.

"I asked you something," Angel said calmly, as he rolled the condom over his cock.

"And I didn't answer. 'S none of your business."

"What if I pay you?" Angel asked, smiling. He squirted a dollop of Astroglide on his palm and began to slick himself up. "Twenty bucks. And another twenty for the name of your wife." At this rate their whole arrangement would be over sooner, so Angel was actually depriving himself, but hey, if a waitress kept his coffee cup full he'd tip her too. Good money for good services rendered, that was his motto.

Spike glowered at him. "You wanna put it to me? Fine. Go on, give it to me. But you don't get the buddy number or the boyfriend experience. Fuck me, or don't. But stay out of my head."

Angel froze. "You ungrateful son-of-a-bitch. I'm offering you an easy way to work off some of your debt and you throw it in my face."

"So sue me."

Blood was thundering in his ears, pounding in his veins, his cock. Before he knew it, Angel had yanked Spike's thighs apart, and aligned his cock. With an angry, balls-deep thrust, Angel slammed inside, eliciting a yelp. It was the first time he took Spike without preparing him first.

* * * * * * * * * *

Later, after he'd rolled off and tossed the used condom into the trash, Angel was silent for a long time.

His prisoner still lay on his back, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Occasionally his body was rocked by something that could have been a sob. His wrists were still cuffed to the headboard, but he had some freedom of movement, enough to cover his eyes with his right upper arm.

Angel was aware that his prisoner hadn't been hard once during that last fuck. Which was okay, after all this… thing wasn't about Spike getting his rocks off, it was about Spike paying back his debt to society.

Still, maybe it was better if this thing, this tryst, came to an end soon….

"Have you ever been fisted?" Angel asked conversationally.

The supine body flinched. Sheets rustled, as knees were hastily drawn up, until the man lay curled in a fetal position.

The sight of his prisoner's fear sent a stab of arousal to Angel's groin. It also annoyed him. Didn't Spike know that he could trust Angel to be careful?

"Three hundred," Angel said, knowing that this would bring Spike's debt down to nil.

"No," his prisoner snapped.

"I don't mean now," Angel said hastily. "Tomorrow. Think about it."

"The answer's 'no.'" Spike shifted, uncurled, getting ready to put up a fight. "Christ, don't you ever get enough?"

Their eyes met.

'I could force you,' Angel almost said, but the words got stuck in his throat.

'I'll fight you, if you do,' Spike's gaze seemed to say.

"What makes you think you've got a choice?" Angel said slowly.

"I'm your whore, not your slave. You gonna play by your own rules or not?" Spike challenged him.

"I just thought you'd be in a hurry to get out." Angel shrugged, deliberately turning away. He'd just have to find something else to keep this interesting.


	9. Chapter 9

It was still dark when Spike woke up drenched in sweat. Claustrophobic alleys, police sirens, insurmountable walls – the nightmare faded fast, and the relentless staccato of footsteps that still rang in his ears turned out to be his own heartbeat. Two memories stayed crystal-clear though: the heavy hand on his shoulder, forcing him to his knees, and the cold pressure of a gun barrel against his head.

Spike recoiled when a hand shook his shoulder.

"Just a dream," a slurred voice came out of the dark, carrying an irritated note. "Go back to sleep." The hand was withdrawn. Moments later, Spike heard even breathing. Angel was asleep again.

Spike stared into the dark, his heart battering his chest like an out-of-control animal trying to smash its cage, unable to go back to sleep.

Three hundred.

Thanks to the detective, Spike had learned more about prices for sexual favors than he'd ever wanted to know. Apparently there were places where a man could get a suck and swallow for five bucks and a pack of smokes. There were sixty suck and swallows in three hundred bucks. Sixty! Still, better than getting that man's huge fist rammed up his arse. Spike shuddered. Anything had to be better than that.

Spike knew one thing for sure. If he ever got out of here he'd never look at crack-whores quite the same way again.

The question was, did Angel accept 'no' for an answer? And once Spike had worked off his 'debt' – would Angel keep his word?

There were times when Spike was convinced that no matter what he did, he'd wind up as another 11-44, discovered in some back alley dumpster by your typical street bum scavenging for cans. For the cops he'd be just a dead ex-con hustler killed by his John, but what about Tara? The thought that she'd have to ID his autopsied remains in the morgue made Spike's stomach churn.

After lying awake for what seemed like hours, his eyes finally drifted shut.

* * * * * * * * * 

Spike woke in an empty bed, but he wasn't alone.

Angel sat, fully dressed, less than two yards away, in the room's only armchair, watching him, his expression inscrutable. The gun lay in his lap, still snug in its holster. Judging by the amount of sunlight in the room, it had to be mid-morning, but in spite of the early hour there was a drink in the detective's left hand, and alcohol on his breath. There was no telling for how long he'd been watching Spike sleep.

"I'd make it good," Angel said, balling his right hand to a fist and studying it from various angles.

"No." Spike was suddenly wide-awake.

"I was hoping you'd draw a line at that," Angel said, smiling. "Because now we get to play a little game, you and I."

"What game?"

"Do you think I'm stupid? Do you think I don't know what you're doing? That you're holding back, trying to shortchange me?"

Spike's heart sank.

"Don't get me wrong," Angel continued amiably. "It takes guts to cross me, and I admire that in a man, but surely you know by now that I'm holding all the aces." He patted the gun in his lap.

"What game?" Spike repeated.

"You see, when you broke in here, you didn't just break the law; you crossed a line. You showed your disrespect – for society and for me. If you don't respect me, how can I trust you to behave, once I let you go? And how can I respect you, and the lines you draw?"

Angel paused.

"Stop pussyfootin' around," Spike spat. "Just say it."

"Respect my rules, and I'll respect yours."

"'Do as you're told, or get fisted,'" Spike translated, feeling faint.

"I see we understand each other."

Angel leaned forward and unlocked one of the cuffs long enough to free him from the bed and to remove the bandages from his injured wrists, then chained his wrists in front of his body, giving him the freedom to manipulate objects like the faucets in the bath or the shower head.

Then Angel wound a chain around Spike's ankles, reducing his movements to an undignified shuffle. It was one of his standard precautions before allowing Spike to use the bathroom.

"Get yourself cleaned up. In and out."

Spike got up.

"Oh and don't even think about jerking off in there. Until this is over you only come when I tell you to."

* * * * * * * * * 

By the time Spike returned from the bathroom, fresh and clean, hair hanging in damp curls, Angel was done with his preparations. He'd cleared the surface of the bedside table, and laid out a selection of dildos in a neat row. Condoms, lube, and latex gloves were also in easy reach. His heart was racing and his dick was already stirring with anticipation.

Spike's step faltered at the sight of the toys, but he said nothing. Good.

Angel pointed at a spot on the floor in front of the bed. "Kneel."

Spike shuffled to the appointed spot and slowly sank to his knees.

"Put those on. Tight." A black leather strap lay on the bed, together with two small metal objects that were connected by a thin chain. A cock ring and nipple clamps.

Hampered not just by the cuffs but also by obvious inexperience, his prisoner fumbled with the spring-loaded clamps, opening and closing the little metal jaws to get a feel for them. His expression was one of thinly veiled nervousness.

"Play with your nipples first," Angel demanded, slowly rubbing his swelling cock through the fabric of his pants.

Spike shot him an angry glance, but he did as he was told. He moistened his index finger with saliva, then circled the dusky nubs with his fingernail, scratching and tweaking them. They puckered into perky little cherry pips, as though eager for the clamp.

Spike winced when the first clamp bit into his sensitized flesh. Angel grinned, knowing that the clamps had quite a bite – not that he'd tried them on himself. Now the second clamp, yes. Angel could feel his cock grow heavy and hard in his grip.

Spike sat for moment, regarding the new additions to his chest with distaste, before he gave the chain a tentative tug. Satisfied that the clamps were holding he reached for the leather strap.

After less than a minute he was done and let his hands sink, palms flat on his thighs, the chain strung tight between his wrists, cutting across his soft dick. With the metal prod collar round his long neck and the thin chain round his ankles, Spike looked like a fetish photographer's wet dream. Especially with the tiny beads of water that occasionally dripped from his wet hair to paint wet streaks across his evenly tanned torso.

Angel swallowed, rock-hard, a tight sensation in his nuts that was bordering on painful. He stood up. A black scarf dangled from his left hand, long enough to trail over the impeccably white carpet. With sure, economic movements he tied the scarf around his prisoner's head, blindfolding him.

"Stay where you are."

* * * * * * * * * 

He heard Angel head downstairs, a jaunty spring in his step. About five minutes later, five minutes that Spike spent cursing inwardly in order to keep himself from trembling with apprehension, Angel came back up, lugging something up the stairs. The twin snap of locks opening identified the object as some kind of case.

Humming, Angel fiddled with the contents, but Spike couldn't for the life of him identify what those were, until finally he heard the tell-tale clickety-click of a shutter opening and closing.

What the—? Pictures. The bastard was taking pictures.

"Sit still!" Angel snapped.

Rules. Spike quickly lowered his head, snapping back into his submissive pose. Just another hoop to jump. What was one more humiliation compared to what had already been done to him?

More clickety-clicks. Then: "Touch yourself. Stroke your cock. Get it hard."

Spike did not hesitate. The handcuffs rattled lightly with each upward and downward movement. After just a few practiced strokes, blood welled into his dick, causing it to rapidly swell and harden. The snug leather strap that had been a mild nuisance until now, made itself felt, tight and slightly chafing. Also, with each passing moment the clamps were getting more uncomfortable.

The blindfold was a double-edged thing. Frightening, because Spike couldn't see what was coming, and soothing, because it made hiding inside his own head easier. He could just turn on the porn reels in his head, summon memories without too much distraction. He wondered if Angel was aware of that and whether Angel had ever allowed anyone to blindfold him. Probably not. The man was a fucking control-freak. No wonder his wife had upped and left.

Spike tried to ignore the circumstances he was in. Instead he concentrated on keeping his strokes slow and even.

Downstairs the doorbell rang.

Spike's hand stilled. A groceries delivery? Dominoes? A sexy next door neighbor asking for a cup of coffee?

"Who said you could stop? Keep moving," Angel demanded, no longer taking pictures. "Keep it hard." Spike heard him set down the camera, and then his self-appointed prison-warden hurried down the stairs.

Spike resumed stroking, but in a slower rhythm, as he listened avidly to Angel answering the door.

He was intensely aware of the plush carpet under his bare knees, and the insistent pinch on his swollen nipples. Without sight, every other sensation seemed so much more intense. The blindfold was so tight, that the fabric exerted a dull pressure against his eyeballs, making all eye-movements kind of scraping. The room was warm, yet Spike could not repress a shiver when wetness from his hair trickled down his spine. His heels dug into his butt, but at least he wasn't sitting on a plug this time. Although that was probably going to change. Angel sure liked his toys.

Voices drifted up the staircase, too low to make out individual words. The front door was shut, but the muted conversation continued. A visitor? Police? Should Spike yell? Bring attention to himself?

Yeah. And be found in this humiliating situation. Brilliant plan. Spike found himself going soft at the thought, which was no good. Angel was only looking for an excuse to get his way. Of course that thought didn't help matters either. Spike squeezed harder, desperately trying to coax himself back to full hardness.

Angel's heavy tread pounded up the winding staircase, followed by lighter footsteps.

Oh shit, Angel was bringing his visitor upstairs!

Spike swallowed, fighting down a surge of panic. Shame washed over him like a hot gust of wind. He had to hand it to the bastard, Angel sure knew how to rub salt into open wounds.

The carpet muffled their footsteps, but Spike knew Angel and his visitor had stopped beside him. He could sense their proximity in his gut, on an instinctual level that had nothing to do with the conscious interpretation of sound and smell and body heat.

Spike flinched when a warm, dry hand lightly touched his shoulder.

"Hey man, you sure he wants this?" A male voice spoke up. A good voice, Spike thought, young, with a twinge of genuine concern. "He seems kinda, I dunno…" The voice petered off uncertainly.

"He's just nervous," Angel dismissed the question. "You know how it is, you talk about this kind of thing beforehand, how you want to play the scene, but when it's time to go through with it…." Angel chuckled. "Don't worry. He'll be fine once we get started."

So now Angel was letting his buddies use him? 'Fine' wasn't quite the word Spike would have used.

"Tell him, Spike," Angel said, laying a heavy hand on Spike's shoulder, "Tell Charlie that you're a happy camper."


	10. Chapter 10

Hope soared for a brief moment, then nose-dived like a shot down double-decker plane. Angel wasn't stupid, he wouldn't have brought the other man if he didn't think he could control the situation.

"I'm fine," Spike choked out, "a happy camper, like he said."

Okay, so he was unable to keep his voice sarcasm-free. But he'd swallowed a 'Just twitchy 'cause I missed breakfast' – that had to account for something, right?

The hand on his shoulder gave the collar a slight yank that caused the metal prongs to scrape against Spike's collarbone. A very definite warning.

"Look, can we get started?" Spike asked, almost meaning it.

"Take him out," Angel said. Spike heard him walk off, and sit down in his armchair. Getting comfortable for his own private peep show. Probably reaching for his camera too.

Spike wrestled down his loathing. Maybe if he broke this up into small steps, baby steps, it would get easier. Taking a deep breath, Spike raised his hands to grope around in the dark. The bed was directly in front him, and Angel had been to his right, so the visitor – Angel had called him Charlie – had to be standing to the left of him. Yup. He encountered a leg dressed in coarse fabric, denim, and let his hands slide upwards until he reached the man's crotch, then ventured further north for the button. There. Pop. And now the zipper. Down. Underneath: fabric, cotton, still bearing the smell of fresh laundry, loose fit… definitely boxer shirts. Spike tentatively wormed his hand into the slit…

Warm skin, smooth and silky, encasing flesh that was still soft to Spike's ginger touch. As Spike eased the man's dick out of his boxers, he also released a hint of male musk and soap, a surprisingly good earthy smell.

Clickety-clack, the camera went. And again.

Since Angel gave no further instructions, Spike just held Charlie's cock in his hand, feeling it swell and grow heavy in his grasp.

A warm hand touched Spike's back, fingertips trailing northwards, past the nape of his neck and into his hair, as though to groom the damp strands. Spike wasn't surprised when the hand nudged him towards the cock he was holding. The thing that surprised him was the gentleness of the gesture.

Still he hesitated.

"Do it. Let him take charge," Angel said in between clickety-clacks, as though he was reading Spike's mind.

So that's what Spike did. He opened his mouth and let Charlie's hand guide him.

He sucked and licked for several minutes, exploring the shape and size of the man's cock, balls, and sac through touch and taste instead of sight. A nice cut cock, smaller than Angel's, but not by much, surrounded by perfectly waxed skin.

Charlie began to gently rock his hips.

There was a hypnotic quality to the rhythmic backward and forward slide of silky skin in and out of Spike's mouth. The friction was starting to feel good. Spike was still far from aroused, but his cock, which had always had a mind of its own, was beginning to take an interest.

The wet sucking and slurping noises he was producing seemed way too loud in Spike's ears. Eventually, Spike realized that the camera was silent, which could only mean that Angel's hands were busy elsewhere. He concentrated on the other sounds in the room: heavy breathing, Charlie's and his own, and from a few yards away the whap-whap-whap of skin chafing against skin in a punishing rhythm, fast and harsh strokes. Spike found himself sucking harder, moving faster. Fuck, why did the sound of Angel furiously jerking off send a spark of lust to his groin?

Spike gasped around the hot and hard flesh in his mouth, when a gentle but sudden tug on the nipple chain sent a small explosion of heat and pain through his entire body.

"Stop," Charlie said, as he pulled out. "Don't move."

It sounded more like a request than an order, yet Spike's heart started to race anyway. Part of him was still waiting for the other shoe to drop. He stayed on his haunches, breathing heavily, twitchy from the painful-yet-pleasurable tightness in his nipples, listening to sounds of shoes being toed off, of clothes being pushed down and discarded.

"Stand up," Charlie said, "slowly. And then I'd like you to get on the bed. On your back."

The bed wasn't far. Spike made it without mishap. He stretched out, cuffed hands above his head, the way Angel liked it. The sheets felt smooth under his back, and they smelled clean and fresh.

"No need to be nervous." Starting at the top, Charlie ran skilled fingers over Spike's body, briefly examining his chafed wrists, then tugging lightly on the chain that connected Spike's nipples, before traveling south to touch Spike's cock. "Okay, let me fix that," Charlie said, and the leather strap was briefly loosened only to be reattached much more firmly.

The exploration continued, with warm hands examining Spike's balls and sac, stroking his thighs and calves, touching his ankles and briefly tickling the soles of his feet and the sensitive spots between his toes, a source of exquisite pleasure that only Tara had ever discovered and touched. Spike could not help twitching.

The thin chain round his ankles was unlocked, and discarded. Then the hands traveled back, slowly, steadily. Strong thumbs took the route of his inner legs, pushing upwards, exerting pressure on his inner calves and thighs, expertly spreading him open.

Maybe it was because the hands that were touching him were coaxing, instead of demanding, assuring instead of gleefully stripping him of will and dignity, but Spike felt his cock throb against the tight leather strap, felt it grow to full, urgent hardness.

'Touch me,' he thought disjointedly, toes curling, arching slightly like a cat basking in sunlight. Please, oh god, please….

He exhaled explosively, when warm fingers touched the root of his cock, checking the more than snug fit of the cock ring.

"Sorry, man," Charlie said, sounding like he meant it. "I know it's tight, but your master said you have a mind of your own."

'Master.' Spike hated that word, but before he could refute it even in his head, the thought got shoved aside, jostled to the sideline along with any irritation and shame he felt. Spike was ready for almost anything, for the intrusion of fingers or toys up his butt, for more vigorous mouth-fucking, or more painful nipple stimulation, but not for the warm and wet sensation of soft lips closing around the head of his own cock, expertly sucking and licking. Not for the mind-blowing swirl and play of Charlie's slick agile tongue up and down Spike's rock-hard shaft, and definitely not for that skilled wet mouth and – ooh my! – that tight tight throat taking him in right… down… to his balls. Fuck!

Christ this was good. Spike whimpered, his determination to stay silent forgotten. His fingers twitched, eager to curl into hair, and suddenly they no longer rested on the pillow above his head, but touched short-cropped afro-curly hair on a nicely rounded skull, not to push, just to feel that up-and-downwards motion under his hands.

Later he realized that the blindfold made perfect sense. If you didn't see what was coming, you couldn't brace yourself, couldn't keep a tight rein on those sighs and moans. It also blotted out Angel's presence, the man's smirk and intense stare that had always strengthened Spike's resolve to fight. Even the harsh clatter of the camera shutter assumed an abstract quality, just white noise, unable to distract from the intense pleasure that was funneled into his body through his cock.

Spike understood vaguely that he was in the hands of an expert hustler who brought all his experience to the task of getting him worked up, licking, and nibbling, stroking and kneading his entire body, honing him to a perfect edge, but the knowledge changed nothing.

He heard a strangled shout once, and it took him a full minute that he'd just heard Angel spend himself into his hand, and then that thought spiraled out of his consciousness again, because he needed… needed… more.

Again and again, Spike was deepthroated, and sometimes Charlie hummed around his cock, causing delicious vibrations,. He arched into that warmwetsofthot mouth, more more more and then the mouth was gone, replaced by strong fingers and he was flipped over and spread open, molded like a limp doll and a tongue lapped at his hole, licking and pushing, lathering and dipping inside, opening him up, making him twitch and moan, so fucking good, he couldn't help writhing and dragging his cock against the mattress… humping, humping….

Of course he was flipped over again, on his back, and then the mouth was back sucking his cock, faster and faster and Spike pushed back against the fingers that probed his hole, impaling himself without hesitation Oh Fuck Yes

Brimming with desperate need, his body strained towards an explosive release, faster and faster, closer, closer, towards the brink, there, yes -- and then the strokes and sucks that whipped him forward stopped, and the strap, and a firm pinch round the base of his cock, yanked him back from the edge, once, twice, and again, each time more frustrating and painful than the last.

His body was burning up doused in sweat his nipples on fire sending blasts of heatpainpleasure all over his body in concentric waves and his cock felt like it was about to burst and by god the pressure in his balls was like nothing he'd ever felt before and this was more than he could take please god please please please….

"Please."

When the word finally spilled out Spike didn't even know what he was begging for.

"'Please' what?" a voice asked. Angel's voice. Hoarse. Breathless.

Stop. Go on. More. No more. "Please." Spike shook his head.

Anything, just to make that exquisite torture stop. But 'anything' was stuck in Spike's throat. He twitched, trying to force the fingers – no, the fingers had long been replaced by something thicker and harder – trying to force the thick plug deeper inside. A second pair of hands pushed him down, held him in place, but Spike had already lost all ability to count.

Voices clashed over his head, one angry and breathless, the other calm, soothing, talking about fists and boundaries inside of heads; and Spike didn't understand anything they were saying and he didn't care, not anymore.

A heavy body knelt down between his thighs. Strong hands lifted his hips off the mattress, the plug was pulled out, leaving behind an aching sense of loss, and then there was a slick blunt pressure against his hole. He jerked down, yes, more, and he knew it was Angel's cock without having to see it, because he knew those large hands that held him tight, that kept him suspended.

A thumb wormed itself between his lips, coaxing his jaws apart, not that he needed a lot of persuading, and then a cock, Charlie's, slowly pushed into Spike's mouth. He relaxed his throat, sucking eagerly. His hands flew to his cock, but were caught before he could make contact with his aching flesh. He whined around the cock in his mouth, please please please, and then a hand fumbled with the clamps, taking them off, and fuck, his nipples throbbed and throbbed like fuck, but so good, and drip drip drip something hit his chest and belly, beads of wetness, come, no, sweat, because Charlie was slithering down Spike's belly, tongue dipping into his navel and then…

Lips. Sliding down his cock, taking him in deeper and deeper and finally the strap came undone and Spike bucked, down on the thick cock that was teasing his grasping hole and it bullied inside too fast too deep, almost splitting him in two and yet so welcome and good, causing a shockwave of pleasure to race all over his body into his limbs and toes and fingers.

He came with a shuddering keening intake of breath, for a moment hovering in the air, then slamming down again, down on Angel's cock, again and again, riding him feverishly, riding the crest of his orgasm, twitching and writhing and thrusting into the hot mouth around his cock, the cock in his mouth thrusting in and out in the same rhythm.

Salty wetness erupted in Spike's mouth, and he swallowed automatically, eagerly. The pounding in his ass continued, hard thrusts, pushing him over the cliff again, wringing another climax from Spike's softening cock, and this time when he convulsed and jerked uncontrollably…

* * * * * * * * 

Angel came with a roar, a primeval sound that had to have been buried deep inside him. Again and again, as though trying to spill more than just his spunk into his twitching prisoner, Angel slammed into the warm silken tightness that encased his cock, pushing Spike upwards into Gunn's waiting mouth. Losing himself in that complicated tangle of sweat-slick limbs.

It was better than anything he could have ever imagined.

* * * * * * * * 

For a long time Spike was unable to form any coherent thought. The blindfold was gone, but he kept his eyes closed anyway, dispassionately breathing in the heady smells of sweat and spunk, listening to the other two men taking turns in the shower. Listening to his own strong, exultant heartbeat. Listening to Angel and Charlie getting dressed. To the dry rustle of dollar bills being counted and pocketed. Someone approached, and a soft kiss was planted on Spike's sweat-damp brow. The footsteps drew away, heading towards the staircase.

Wait. Spike turned his head, wincing when bright sunlight pierced his eyes. Purple spots danced in front of him, but he wanted to see. Him.

Young, black – which he'd guessed from the feel of the hair – full beautiful lips – which he knew because he'd felt them on his body. A good face, open. Shouldn't a whore look more jaded? Whore. An ugly word for someone so… beautiful.

Charlie saw him, smiled.

Spike smiled back, a lazy languid smile. Wondered vaguely if Charlie served women too.

Then Charlie disappeared downstairs, and Angel, who was following him to let him out, shot Spike a parting glance in which resentment struggled against reason.

Spike swallowed.

* * * * * * * * 

"I take it, getting fucked by two cocks at the same time was supposed to be twice as character building?" Spike sniped, when Angel came back up. But his voice still held a toffee quality, a languid, sated tone. Sounding well-fucked rather than angry. At least for now.

Angel pondered a 'whores can't be choosy,' but tiredly settled for "you liked it, so shut up," instead.

He couldn't help staring at his prisoner, who's skin was still pink and flushed. Even Spike's frown couldn't distract from the fact that he was practically glowing from the inside. For an insane moment Angel wished he could capture that glow; wished he were able to peruse it again and again. A wish that made about as much sense as wanting to lock up shafts of sunlight in a cage.

"You're gonna shoot me now?" Spike asked, sounding calm, almost serene, like he didn't care either way.

Killing him would be easy. Messy, but easy. Yet it also meant crossing a line Angel had thought he'd never cross.

"I never killed a man I didn't have to," Angel said ambiguously, but even as he spoke his hand reached for his gun. He pulled it from its shoulder holster, relishing its comforting weight in his hand, and checked the chambers, but in truth he was furtively watching his prisoner. Waiting for something.

Maybe waiting to feel anger or disgust for his prisoner, but that fire had burnt its course. Or maybe waiting to see fear reemerge, that intoxicating panic that had brought Spike to his knees the first time.

However, Spike looked on in stony silence. Angel knew, there and then, that there was something in his prisoner that he'd never be able to touch.

"I'm not about to start now," he said, shoving the weapon into its holster. To think that he'd even considered…. He dug out the key. "Gimme your hands."

Spike sat up, uncurling like a big cat, and offered his wrists.

Angel unlocked the cuffs with practiced ease, careful, in case his prisoner decided to make a grab for the gun, then took them off, and slipped them into his back pocket. "There you go. You're free to leave."

For several seconds Spike just sat there, rubbing his wrists, which still bore the marks of his captivity. Angel had seen that kind of forlorn and incredulous expression before, on the faces of convicts when they were released after long-term imprisonment: like a rabbit scared by the open cage door.

"I'll need my pants."

Angel retrieved the bundle from the walk-in closet and tossed it on the bed.

Spike pulled the clothes towards him, and briskly put them on.

"I want my suit," Spike finally said.

"What?"

Spike raised his head and leveled a chilling gaze at him. His voice was flat when he spoke. "The suit I earned, the Armani you said was worth a grand."

The cheek! Angel's anger flared up, but common sense caught up with it easily. Spike was right, he had earned it.

Angel strode into the closet, snatched up three random suits by their hangers and tossed them on the bed. "Pick one," he said. "I doubt it'll fit, but you're right, one of them is yours."

Spike didn't look at the Armanis; he was watching Angel with disconcerting intensity. Angel stiffened, throwing back his shoulders, when something inside his stomach clenched sickeningly. He wondered what it was. It couldn't be guilt or shame. Spike had had it coming. But the feeling grew, tiny, sobering pinpricks of wrongness. Suddenly, he couldn't get rid of Spike fast enough. "You know what? Take'm all," he said, gathering the suits up again and dumping them in Spike's arms.

Clutching the three suits, Spike wordlessly picked up his shoes, then slunk down the winding staircase, casting wary glances behind him, as though he expected Angel to change his mind.

Angel followed him, but instead of escorting his prisoner to the front door, he paused at the bottom of the stairs. "See that door?" he said, with a dismissive wave of his hand, "Just let yourself out." He felt tired, drained, with a taste like ashes in his mouth. He headed for the liquor cabinet and poured himself a Bourbon. Straight, no ice.

A picture of him, Darla, and Connor sat on the sideboard, one he'd taken less than six months ago with the tripod and the Nikon's auto-function. He picked it up, and ran his thumb over the three smiling faces that beamed out of the frame. Shiny happy people.

Angel put the frame back and picked up the large brown envelope that had lain there for the past week, unopened. Inside were several large prints, grainy black-and-white photographs taken through a telephoto lens. They resembled surveillance shots but they didn't show the usual hookers and perps, but Darla and her lover, Lindsey, laughing, arms slung around each other. Sharing a smile, much like the one Charles and Spike had exchanged.

Life's a bitch.

Behind him, the door was opened.

"You were lucky, this time," Angel said over his shoulder, letting the hand with the envelope fall to his side, not caring that the prints scattered to the floor. "But If I ever catch you breaking into someone else's house again, I won't let you off so easily." He almost sounded like he meant it.

"Lucky, yeah." Spike gave a hollow laugh.

Angel picked up his glass and peered into the amber mirror in his glass as though it held the answer to a multitude of questions. He could feel the other man's eyes on him, branding him with their intensity.

After half a dozen uncomfortable seconds, the front door closed with a soft click.

Angel downed his drink, slammed down the empty glass, and flipped the family photograph over, face-down.

Game over.

 

****

Epilogue

Bright sunlight and fresh air greeted him. Spike paused ten steps outside the condo to take a deep breath. Then he stooped to put on his trainers. He'd forgotten his socks, but no way was he going back inside for them. He had no intention of ever setting foot into Angel's apartment again. Luckily, he didn't have to.

The money was hidden inside a shoebox on one of the top shelves of that fancy walk-in closet: ten thousand in cash, complete with the detective's prints. A pack of cocaine from the same bust, also bearing Angel's prints. Stuff the detective had handled but which had miraculously disappeared on its way from bust to precinct. The IA would find these very interesting, once an anonymous phone call alerted them to their presence.

Spike had been pulling favors left, right, and center for this. Riley would disapprove, but he'd always been a good guy anyway, unlike Spike, and besides, he was dead and had no say in how he'd be avenged. Fact was, if Spike didn't make Detective Liam Angel pay, nobody would.

There was a certain poetic justice in the fact, that the detective would trip over something he hadn't actually done. After all, Riley had also gone to jail for a crime he hadn't committed, taking the fall for one of the detective's chums.

Spike squinted into the sunlight, basking in its warmth. It would be a long walk home. Christ, he wished he could call Tara, if only to tell her to stop worrying, that he was safe and on his way home, but he didn't even have a quarter for the phone. Just three expensive Armani suits hanging over his arm.

Three houses further down, a well-built man was loading soda cases into the trunk of his car. Maybe Spike would swap him the suits for a bit of cash, enough to pay for a phone call and a cab home.

It wasn't like Angel's Armanis fit him anyhow.

 

END


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